


to say something beautiful

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: How do you say it? It's home. It feels like coming home.





	to say something beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> hahahha i....this was meant to be an ole/scholesy thing but it just ended up ole because i love him so much it's ridiculous. bye
> 
> I have to move this portion up otherwise u'd be hit by second chapter syndrome again  
> \- Generic Ole profiles: [x](https://amp.theguardian.com/football/blog/2018/dec/21/old-gunnar-solskjaer-alex-ferguson-hairdryer-treatment) (this one is great!!! i cried) [this one too!!](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/manchester-united/8897844/Jim-White-Ole-Gunnar-Solskjaer-reveals-why-Manchester-United-hot-seat-is-his-burning-ambition.html) [x](https://www.skysports.com/football/news/11667/11585807/ole-gunnar-solskjaer-to-manchester-united-the-view-from-norway) [x](https://www.planetfootball.com/nostalgia/tribute-ole-gunnar-solskjaer-man-utds-great-bargain-mr-reliable/) [x](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/manchester-united/2486627/All-football-will-miss-the-Baby-Faced-Assassin-football.html) [x](https://dictatethegame.com/2018/03/23/players-of-the-90s-ole-gunnar-solskjaer/) [x](https://www.theguardian.com/football/blog/2012/nov/10/celebration-ole-gunnar-solskjaer-molde) [x](https://thesetpieces.com/features/ole-gunnar-solskjaer-likeable-man/)

 

 

 

 

_Good luck Ole pal_

_Tell me next time so I don't find out thru the Norwegian PM!!_

_U probably dont need advice m8 but chin up n let them play freely W_

_Call me when you get here_

_See you soon gaffer!_

_Nice one. Any chance of a job now?_

 

 

 

 

It's raining when you get off the plane. If it'd been sunny you would have been disappointed, to be fair; most of what you remember is shrouded in this sheeting kind of bleakness, grey and grim even when it wasn't wet. You have to dash the last hundred or so yards off the runway and into the airport and you laugh out loud when you crash inside, a puddle forming where you stand.

Immigration tries to be all nonchalant but doesn't succeed. So do the customs officers; you can tell they're wondering whether to pull you aside just so they can say _I looked through the suitcase of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer._

No. _I looked through the suitcase of the Manchester United manager._

That's who you are, now, and that's all you're going to be for the next six months, all anyone will know and judge you by. Anyway it's easier to pronounce.

You give them a smile and wheel your luggage out of the double doors. It's early morning on a weekday and there aren't all that many people around, although you're fairly sure that people have been tracking flights from Oslo to Manchester all night and aren't disappointed by the small cluster of red-shirted fans outside.

"Ole, Ole Ole Ole," they break into song on cue as they spot you, and you wave back, and something the size of a fist unclenches in your chest, because here you are. Here you are.

"I'm sorry about all the cock-ups," Woodward says, sounding more anxious than apologetic. Not for the first time you think that he's completely out of his depth, but then again Woodward must think the same of you too. All of you are just trying to pretend that life could go on beyond the gaffer when it hasn't.

"No worries."

You put pen to paper. You put on a tracksuit and takes pictures in the stuffy office room in the chair where Moyes and van Gaal and Mourinho have sat. Giggsy had texted you that morning: _beat you to it._

Outside Carrington is swankier than the Cliff but it's got the same - whatever it was, you'd sometimes thought of it as a golden thread - all the way through, years and years bound up and thrust into the concrete of the railings, the grass. Names that rattle off the sleek walls like a ball off the crossbar.

Impulsively you run onto the pitch, in the rain. Water trickles down your brand-new tracksuit, gets into your hair that's greying at the edges, no longer a little boy people wouldn't believe had turned thirty last year.

Woodward stares at you like he's afraid he's made a mistake. Maybe that's just how he looks at everything.

"No worries," you shout again, laughing, so hard now it almost splits your lungs. You kick at the pitch with your business-leather shoe and the water arcs upward. Each droplet crystalline under your gaze.

 

 

 

 

It feels like the first time. Standing on the unruly uncut grass of the Cliff, the high 80s fencing, the jersey tucked into your jeans because they'd run out of Umbro shorts. You hadn't even bothered to take your t-shirt off, just sort of thrown the jersey on; hadn't thought much of it really. You didn't know anything about this club except that it was a Big Club and an Opportunity, and as a striker you had to take all the Opportunities you got.

Ronny Johnsen stood on the edge, the Norwegian people actually did know, who didn't have to sit through press conferences where half of it was _how do you pronounce -_ he gave you a brief smile. The gaffer had his arm around your shoulder. There was something, even then; you'll try for the rest of your life but you won't know how to say it, as if explanation would ever do him justice. He said something along the lines of that's right, son. Look up. Smile at the camera. He called everyone son.

 

 

 

 

A quick word to Øystein on the phone: yeah, I'm fine, yeah, it's raining, no, I'm not pining for the fjords, fuck off. He laughs and repeats it the way you say it: _fook_. They're always doing that, even the players in training sometimes. _Pahss ahnd shoot the ball. Well dohne._

You grin and hang up on him. It's not the kind of thing to be embarrassed about, not when it's something to carry with you the way you carry memories. Once - this was - I am. There are so many people and so many stories in this world, and this is part of yours, telling people who you are without them having to ask. Like a pirate's eyepatch. The colour of your passport, letters that come before or after your name. A crest on your shirt.

 

 

 

 

Nicky greets you with a hand and a hug in the corridor. "You're an old man now," he says, laughing.

"You only look the same because you haven't got any more hair to lose."

But you press a bar of Norwegian chocolate into his hands, which mollifies him. He steers you towards the offices, chattering all the way about his kids and the names you have to call up for Reading, who's good at what, and how the lads are looking forward to meeting you.

"You're, like, a legend, y'know? I mean we all are. I still haven't gotten used to it. It's kinda weird."

It's really been - almost twenty years, huh, Nicky telling you about what they're going to do next year. "Marketing's working overtime. They're probably the most psyched that you're back." If they get you to recreate the knee slide across the pitch you'll murder them; you're too old for that shit.

That's all you do the whole day, in the end, walk around with bars and bars of chocolate. Every face around the complex is familiar, from when you coached the reserves and even before that. The cleaning ladies, the receptionists, the press officers from the nineties, the physios. Your bag empty and your heart full. Nicky walks with you the whole way - "don't you have work to do?" you ask, and he winks back: "babysitting."

You don't mind. He was there behind you in '99 and it fits that he'd be here now. Everything fits; it's like opening a door and finding a roaring fireplace inside, your favourite meal on the table. How do you say it? Later the press will ask you the same question again and again: how do you feel, is it familiar, what is it like. And you'll try to give them something that isn't saccharine - put on your serious face and tell them you're here to do a job - but your heart will let you down every time.

How do you say it? It's home. It feels like coming home.

 

 

 

 

"What're you doing for dinner?"

You kick at the gravel in the car park, hands in your pockets.

"Thought I'd walk around the city a bit. Haven't done that in a while."

It isn't strictly true. You'd been back in November for the Young Boys game and stayed out late afterwards, watching the last trains leave Piccadilly. The lights of the Northern Quarter being switched off. Your city - it gives you a thrill to be able to say that properly now.

Nicky snorts. "That's such a boring, Scandinavian thing to do."

"Hey. At least I'm not building IKEA tables."

"Or doing the viking clap."

"Fuck Iceland," you say, generously. "We were here first."

He gives you a grin and a clap on the back and then disappears, leaving you alone for the first time in two days. Everyone else has gone home. Your phone isn't ringing. A quiet has settled over the whole complex, the multicoloured sky. Only then you realise it's stopped raining.

You kneel down and gather a fistful of gravel in your hand. Curl your fingers around the fragments of rock, some of them so sharp they cut into your skin, like immutable scars.

 

 

 

 

There's something you try not to tell anyone: that you watched Liverpool, growing up. How could you not? The Premier League didn't exist then in its fully televised glory. Anything you got was of the Match of the Day and _Shoot!_ varieties, filtered through the red film of Rush and Dalglish.

So an inevitability. Someone must've gone and told someone else because it slips out and every so often you still get asked about it, and you have to smile and say _I never confirm that one!_ , even though it gnaws away at you with a sharp twisted pain, like tearing off your fingernails. And tasting blood.

But that pain, see: older, wiser, you get it now. Stepping into the office they'd asked if you needed the video analysis and you said you'd already watched every game this season. Blood is red, always red.

 

 

 

 

Wake up. You're in Manchester. The sun is still out - _imagine_ \- and streaming through the curtains. You throw on a coat because here sun doesn't mean warm and step outside, glancing at your phone.

_Mick's here. he'll take the lads through training and you can see him after_

_After what?_

_Gaffer wants to see you_

 

 

 

 

You've been here before, a couple times. Once soon after you signed, twenty-three years old with your parents; he'd made a point of meeting everyone's families, so that they knew you'd be in good hands. So that he knew what kind of hands you used to be in, too.

He was always like that. Doing things for two, three purposes at a time, being too clever. Pissing the whole league off. You still have the book you wrote in while you were sat on the bench, taking note of everything he said and did:

 

 _\- Man management dropping players telling them to prep next week_  
_- Not the best team but the team that knows how to play together_  
_- United is an ISLAND_  
_- Fourth official + timekeeping_

 

That last one appeared a lot. True to form. Maybe you should buy a watch.

"Ole," he says at the door. You notice the way his face is older, a by-product of the hospital. You'd seen him in there too - you all had - he'd looked small and grey. But here he's smiling broadly with arms outstretched.

Cathy makes you cups of tea. You take one and sip at it slowly, the liquid burning your tongue. In Norway everything is coffee and you still don't know why the British are obsessed with hot water.

"Settling in all right?"

"As well as I can be."

"Still living in Bramhall?"

"Never sold it."

He chuckles at that. More small talk, more tea, and you're sinking into the armchair, lazy with familiarity. The sun for once outside. Light cutting through the window, casting shadows on the gaffer's face, his shirt.

"Did you like tracksuits or coats more?"

"Tracksuits are for skinny people. Giggsy dinnae ever wear a coat, did he? I think you might need one."

"A tracksuit?"

"A coat."

It isn't small talk. It's him feeding you, very gently and without stepping on your toes, more things for your notebook. You know that song - _catch a falling star and put it in your pocket_ \- it's absurd, but that's what you think about now. Catching starlight. Your shining pockets.

"The media," he's saying, one hand folded onto his knee, "are nasty buggers. Nowhere like in Norway, I expect."

"You just have to tell them the right thing, not wage one-man wars against the biggest corporations."

"You're good at that."

He smiles. And he smiles a lot, contrary to popular opinion, but this is shot through with something else, too bright to look at.

"I'm good at it because I believe it," you say.

"Aye. I bet you do."

Silence, for a while. Your phone buzzes but you keep it flat under the palm of your hand. The gaffer isn't looking at you; his head is tilted and he's staring outside, through the window and into the light. All around him is light.

"Ask them if they miss me," he says finally.

"Okay."

"And tell them if they try anything funny with you I'll come for their necks."

"I'm not a little boy anymore." It sits uncomfortably on your shoulders, and you pass it off with a chuckle. "An old man now."

"We all get old."

He leans over and pats you on the arm.

"That's how the stories are written."

 

 

 

 

The same day you took that picture at the Cliff you started training. And of course you knew them all already, even if they didn't know you, watched them on newsreels and in training videos, Hareide telling you to watch the way that Cantona held himself, moved across the pitch.

Cantona - Eric - stood across from you now, weight shifted onto one foot, watching.

Here was the great secret: they didn't know you. All that they knew was that Alan Shearer might be on his way and they needed someone in the meantime. None of them could say your name.

Ryan crossed the ball and you stroked it smooth as anything past Schmeichel. Bottom left, just out of reach that it looked surgical.

 

 

 

 

A beat. Eric shrugged. "Ole, is it?"

 

 

 

 

It feels like -

 

 

 

 

Seeing the boys for the first time. Not the first time; you've been back for more games than you probably should have, hiding in the stands hoping that your face wouldn't be spotted by the cameras. They're good lads.

You know what you sound like? The father of not-good lads. Or some dodgy bloke on the street trying to sell puppies.

It makes you want to laugh.

Jesse and Marcus and Paul are here, a hark-back to when you used to take the reserves. _When_ but it's not all that long ago, is it - not ten years now, and time gets shorter the older you grow.

You clear your throat. You've thought about this but now that you're here it falls strangely apart.

"No real need for introductions, I think. You know who I am." A grin; some of them look slightly discomfited, like they were still trying to forget. "Not because I'm special. But because you should know the name of the player who scored in Barcelona, me or Teddy or anyone else."

Because of the crest on your shirt. This club is nothing but story; nothing but standing on the shoulders of giants.

"That's what you're playing for. This is Man United and all you have to do is show that you are Man United players."

Doesn't it ring false, even to you? Isn't it nothing more than a load of waffle, something written in scripts and for speeches given to chairmen who don't care? The mawkish, maudlin language of social media and its latest promotional videos?

Yes. And yet: no matter how well you know that the video's a promotional sham you feel that twinge of emotion you can't force down. Just before it cuts to whatever it's selling, a new sponsor or kit launch, there it is. Entirely your own.

No. Things ring true because you believe them.

You think, if I can get these kids to see it, that's my job done.

 

 

 

 

Paul picks at his food exactly the same way he used to; sort of stabbing at it with a fork until it's mushed into something that no longer looks edible. "When will you get some manners," you ask, and he retorts with "when will you get a decent centre-back," so, you know, fair.

You don't say anything of substance and neither does he. In fact the twenty words you get out of him are better than usual; you remember vividly how once he'd only said _hello_ and _goodbye_.

But that's what fifteen years does. It brings comfort, it means knowing people who don't want you to know them. It means Paul laying a hand on yours, at the end. Shaking his head: "this won't be easy, Ole."

"I know," you say. "I'm not easy either."

" _Solskjær,_ " he says promptly. "Easy."

You snort and you turn over your hand to take his.

 

 

 

 

Here's the great secret - and there's always a secret - : you are all of them. You are the foreign imports and the youth players and the ones who have learnt to love and the ones who have always loved. You and your baby-face, you and your fifteen years. You who will sit each of them down in the gaffer's office with your hand on their shoulder and tell them this. I know. Not from being patronising, but from being there.

 

 

 

 

Wake up. You're in Manchester. A cloudier day today, although you've still been spared the rain; it waits above bunched grey as you hurry into training. Mick's setting out the cones and you grab a bunch to help, the two of you working in companionable silence.

In training you watch the boys' faces and meet every look with a smile. It gets better. It gets better and this isn't the end.

 

 

 

 

Then what is?

The end. Wake up. It's seven o'clock and you've called the earliest press conference in recent memory because you hate waiting for things that should be gotten over with. Familiar faces from Cardiff, and you know the questions will all be like that.

_Your time at Cardiff didn't go as you would have hoped -_

If you don't make mistakes you're not going to learn.

_How can you pick a side when you've only been here -_

It's Michael and Kieran that've been here for the whole season.

_You have a hard job, players might be thinking about the next manager -_

They all wanna be part of Manchester United, I’m here to help them.

You hear the lilt in your voice all the more exacerbated under the lights and before the microphone like you're trying too hard and it annoys you. Stop asking me about technicalities, you want to tell them. There is nothing technical about this. I was hired for one reason, and I came back for one reason.

A hand raised.

_What was the first thing you did when you got to the manager’s office - it must have been surreal?_

Yeah.

You laugh, lean back, let it fill your chest. It feels like -

 

 

 

 

The game against Newcastle. Ball out by Pearce, the whole of the United team in the box, Rob Lee running away with it all by himself. Couldn't feel your brain it was so bright. The grass underneath your feet. You looked up and reached out; he came down like a waterfall.  
  
I had to, you told David as you walked off. A shrug. The fans clapping you off. The gaffer glowering. _I had to_. Team game, innit?

 

 

 

 

Losing to Manchester United with Cardiff. Two-nil, a terrible performance, and you weren't even watching your team for half of it. You were looking at the stadium. You were looking at the tunnel, at the HOME TEAM plate on the ugly brick wall, the gaffer's name under lights. Later they'd asked _what was the hardest thing about this game_ and you'd almost said _not celebrating when we scored._

 

 

 

 

Signing your contract with Molde, lawyer on your arse for paperwork. You said: will you help me add this clause? She said: are you crazy? You said: probably. It said: if United ever come calling, you'd be allowed to pack your bags and go. Sometimes you have to be a little crazy to dream.

 

 

 

 

It feels like Cardiff. The circular narrative, the script no one could write. It isn't all the press say. The bus barracked and bottles thrown - how _dare_ you come back - are you _sure_ you can do this. Shuddering down the steps you're hit by the bleak evening cold and Mick puts his hand on your shoulder.

"All right there, Ole."

Not a question. You nod, shoulder your bag ( _looks like you're fifty and going to Torquay_ , texts Scholesy). You're all right. There's a crest on your shirt. Things ring true because you believe them, and what else can you give them but belief?

 

 

 

 

_All the best Ole pal_

_8-1 im calling it_

_You've got a good team. It'll be fine._

_Try not to lose too badly eh ;)_

 

 

 

 

Wake up. You're Manchester United and you aren't crazy and this isn't a dream. When they called for real you no longer had that clause but it didn't matter, did it. 

You don't remember the team talk, or where you left your bag. The tunnel is wide and square and you're wearing a red tie, not blue. Michael catches you just before and shoves his phone under your nose: _SOLSKJAER BANNER TO BE RESTORED AT OLD TRAFFORD_.

"Gaffer," he winks.

Outside they're already singing. The roar they give you - you bury it in your heart, this whatever it is, faith and the thin thread of gold that binds you to them. I'm always going to be associated with this club, you'd said once a long time ago, trying to breathe. And that is something I'm very proud of.

Three minutes in, Marcus blasts a free kick into the roof of the net the way David or Eric would sometimes do. Ringing in your ears - you jump up, you yell till your throat feels raw - three minutes in. And they start singing again. Not Marcus's name, yours.

You think of Eric, of the first day.  _Ole, is it?_

 

 

 

 

Five-one. Take a bow. Clap the players. The sky dark. Once upon a time there wouldn't have been a game now at all, until they invented the floodlights that spill onto the grass, so bright you can see the people in the stands. It's only Cardiff. It's only football. You see -

 

 

 

 

That's all there ever was to it. You aged ten in the sand and gravel pitch kicking the ball you slept with at night, its closeness a comfort, roughness a familiarity. You watching tapes of Dalglish and Lineker and the greatest finishers, not _scorers of great goals_ but _great goalscorers_. Trying to see what they saw; the gap between the keeper and the frame of the net. You writing down all of the formations you saw on Match of the Day. You racing through an empty playground, a commentator's voice screaming in your head _and he's through on goal - he's done it! - he's scored the winner in the European Cup Final! -_

 

 

 

 

Now look. All around you is light. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- I tried rly hard to fit [Couldn't care less](https://twitter.com/footballdaily/status/1075330074109464576?lang=en) in but I couldn't but this is the #1 reason I love him (out of many #1s)  
> \- I can't find the reference but I did actually check his flight  
> \- [Ole's unveiling](https://i2-prod.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/incoming/article15570569.ece/ALTERNATES/s615/0_WA440491.jpg), why would u wear jeans silly boy  
> \- Øystein Neerland is Molde's managing director  
> \- There're lots of great videos of Ole's accent but [this](https://twitter.com/football__tweet/status/1075330277025767424?lang=en) is by far the best. Pahss ahnd shoot!!!  
> \- [he rly did give out chocolate to everyone](https://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/premier-league/manchester-united-news-ole-gunnar-solskjaer-press-conference-full-transcript-video-a8694031.html) i hate!!! him!!!  
> \- [IT FEELS LIKE COMING HOME](https://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/premier-league/ole-gunnar-solskjaer-interview-manchester-united-news-manager-latest-a8693766.html)  
> \- [Ole did grow up doing the dirty](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/sport/football/football-news/how-tiny-ole-grew-up-1048029)  
> \- [I never confirm that one!](https://www.fourfourtwo.com/features/ole-gunnar-solskjaer-interview-manchester-united-manager) i loff him!!! there's this great [story](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/sport/football/football-news/man-utd-liverpool-olegunnar-solskjaer-15594982) about him and a liv fan pls read i love  
> \- He did sit on the bench n take notes on what ferg did bc boyyyyy  
> \- Theres too many articles about his hero worship of ferg but he [did actually get told to ask about the press](http://paulscholes.co.vu/post/181486283021/ole-gunnar-solskjaer-the-boss-was-asking-me-if). 'there's only one' jesus ole  
> \- Aye, I bet that's a fuckin reference  
> \- [They all laughed at him](https://metro.co.uk/2019/01/12/manchester-united-must-resist-sleepwalking-ole-gunnar-solskjaer-appointment-8329371/) during his first training session but he soon!! shut them up!!! (Gawwy n Ferg talk about it as well in their books)  
> \- [quite literally his team talk](https://www.manutd.com/en/news/detail/ander-herrera-explains-how-ole-gunnar-solskjaer-has-instructed-the-united-players) (also I swear that every promo video no matter how commercial still hits mee hard and I know shaz will relate with that stupid kit launch vid)  
> \- [Transcript](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/sport/football/man-utd-solskjaer-conference-transcript-15581406) of his first press conf, in which he says terrible things like is comin home  
> \- [His red card](https://strettynews.com/2018/12/19/how-solskjaer-picked-up-the-best-red-card-in-man-utd-history/) against Newcastle, what a hero, my mans!!!  
> \- I think the 'not celebrating when United scored' was apocryphal bc u cant possibly say that as opposing manager but I'll bet he thought it!!!  
> \- He [really did put a clause](https://www.express.co.uk/sport/football/1060857/Ole-Gunnar-Solskjaer-contract-Molde-Man-Utd-Jose-Mourinho-sack-release-clause) in his first contract that he could go to United if we asked for him, I crey every day  
> \- [his banner is BAK and im LIVING](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/sport/football/football-news/ole-solskjaer-man-utd-banner-15589659)  
> \- Shit he's said about United thta meks me cry: [x](http://paulscholes.co.vu/post/105228656745/im-always-going-to-be-associated-with-manchester) [x](https://www.thesportsman.com/articles/open-me-up-i-bleed-red-ole-gunnar-solskjaer-has-always-wanted-the-manchester-united-job) [x](https://www.manutd.com/en/news/detail/ole-gunnar-solskjaer-first-interview-as-man-united-caretaker-manager) [x](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/2300834/Champions-League-final-Ole-Gunnar-Solskjaer-on-the-goal-in-1999-which-made-him-a-hero.html)  
> \- [wails loudly](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/sport/football/football-news/how-tiny-ole-grew-up-1048029) he rly did sleep with a ball  
> \- Title from [here](http://porchbirds.tumblr.com/post/179838847994/i-want-to-be-beautiful-and-i-dont-want-to)
> 
> Honestly I know this is bad but it doesnt matter bc nothing I ever write will ever be able to encapsulate my feewings. The end


End file.
